Fay

by Dulcie M. Stone

  ‘A touch? I find that alarming. It invites serious questions.’

  Serious questions. No answers.

  ‘What will happen now?’ Miss Evans wanted to know.

  ‘Trixie will get her back. She’ll probably lose herself in that typewriter till bus time.’

  ‘The typing. She wouldn’t let me see what it was.’

  ‘Mostly she types the words of pop songs – her favourites. Other stuff too. Bits and pieces that take her fancy.’

  ‘Nothing of her own?’

  ‘Probably. She rips it up. There’d be no hope of seeing what it was, even if I wanted to.’

  ‘You respect her privacy?’ The psychologist wondered.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What if those bits and pieces gave you a clue to her deterioration?’

  ‘It’s her privacy, Miss Evans. If she chooses to tear it up, she’s making it clear it’s not my business.’

  ‘Not necessarily. She could be letting you see her tear it up so you will try to read it.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she frowned. ‘What I do know is that she’s in trouble, and that she trusts you to help.’

  ‘That’s it,’ he retorted. ‘She trusts me. She trusts me not to try to read anything she screws up.’

  ‘Of course. Although…I do have another thought.’

  He waited.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the timing in this latest episode. The social…?’

  ‘She wasn’t ready. We’ve been over it a dozen times. We pushed too hard. It’s that simple.’

  ‘Come on,’ she gently chided. ‘You don’t even believe that yourself.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  The broad Nordic shoulders shrugged.

  ‘Miss Evans?’

  ‘Keep your eyes peeled, Mr Withers.’

  As he watched her stride across the yard and back to the office quarters, the sun disappeared behind yet another cloud. It would be a depressing night.

  Chapter Fourteen

  July 1976

  Mark came in early. Again he had not slept well. For weeks he’d anticipated help from Madeleine Evans. There would be no help. She’d been unable to comprehend the limitations of the rural experience, been incapable of offering any helpful advice, felt threatened by the realities of the classroom, hinted at some private intuition about Fay’s situation, admonished him to stay alert, and escaped to her safe cocoon in the city.

  It was finally clear there would be no help. Again he was on his own. On his own to muddle through with only limited experience and the occasional gem of useful information hidden in the cruelly outdated literature - when he found time to read it. All this, of course, undermined by the constant knowledge that the baleful eye of Mrs Ryan was forever on the watch for an opportunity to be rid of Fay. Poor Fay.

  This morning, as he sometimes did, he’d left the car for Jenny. She could have driven him, he could have asked Ruth to pick him up. Instead, he’d opted to walk. But even the long walk in the crisp winter air was not freshening him. He felt stale and depressed and inadequate. He felt restless. Restless. And frustrated. And powerless. He felt fed up and useless. He’d thought he could make a difference. He’d learned he couldn’t. He was also beginning to suspect that his continuing regrets about his dead brother might have triggered irresponsible idealism. Could this whole new life he’d engineered have been inspired by ongoing guilt? He’d told himself his motives were totally rational. He’d told Jenny so, and been happy to accept her sacrifice without looking deeply into her reasons for compliance.

  More perilously - he’d believed himself. Was it on the slippery slope of self-deception that he’d uprooted his long-suffering wife? Why was he risking his children? If he stayed, would they be handicapped by the same inadequacies of rural isolation that were victimising Fay? If he stayed? He wanted to stay. He also did not want to feel restless and powerless and frustrated. So what if he was here because of misguided idealism? Or misplaced guilt? Or some other subterranean itch? Having come here, having seen so much, one thing he did know for sure - he wanted to make a difference. The question was - could anyone?

  Striding between the tall winter gums, listening to the carolling magpies, watching the cars slush through last night’s rain puddles, he steadfastly refused to pursue this question to where it wanted to go. For sure, when he’d left mainstream teaching, the destructive restrictions of the training centres was not what he’d expected. Maybe no one could make a difference. What if no one even tried?

  Poor Fay. Like so many other ‘misfit’ kids banished to training centres, she was suffering from more than her own deficiencies. Fay Margaret Clark was the victim of a deficient system. A system which saw kids like her abandoned to the care of staff qualified to work with kindergarten children, qualified in medical-type professions, or not qualified at all. He remembered the city conference. He’d seen them, mixed with them, heard them. The fact was that the trainers in the training centres, with remarkably few exceptions, meant well. Even worse was the fact that the system was grievously disadvantaged by those highly qualified people who were supposed to know what to do, and didn’t do it. Thank you for nothing, Madelaine Evans! She meant well too. It meant nothing. ‘They mean well!’ What a load of hurtful and downright dangerous rubbish was flourishing under the misguided umbrella of ‘they mean well.’

  Turning in the front gate, listening to the crunch of his heavy shoes on gravel, feeling the chill wind straight off the mountain tops, smelling the acrid scent of burning eucalyptus from the distant timber mills, seeing the ugly unclothed limbs of the pruned rose bushes and the rigid sterility of the empty car park, every sense was acutely attuned to his aloneness. No sound of children’s voices, no sound from the blonde brick building - only emptiness and silence. Was this why he’d left home early? Was he trying to heal his wounded objectivity? Had he chosen to confront this empty futile place, to look it in the eye and to tell it he would not desert it?

  A single black crow, its bleakly strident ‘caw caw’ grating on his brittle nerves, sat on an overhead power line. He looked up, watched its beady eyes scan the barren ground for food, watched it flap its night-dark wings, and fly back up to the mountains. He shivered. Shakespearean in timing and intensity, it mirrored his struggle for stability.

  Refusing to admit to superstitious premonition, he mounted the shallow steps to the front door. It was locked; he was the first to arrive. He unlocked the door, crossed the foyer, passed the reception desk, the closed office door, and paused at the open door of the empty staff room. It was usual for the first staff member to arrive to plug in the electric kettle and prepare coffee for the others. Prospect of the early morning gossip of the women was predictably unbearable. He turned away. He should go back home, he was no use to anyone like this. Thank God the school holidays were close. He’d take Jenny and the children north to the winter sun.

  The quadrangle, grey, sad, regimented, patently constructed by public relations enthusiasts, and suitable for neither children nor relaxation, further deepened his depression. Finally arrived at his classroom, he closed the door, removed his coat, switched on the heaters, and compelled himself to activity.

  Yesterday’s paintings were still on the easels. Last night he’d been too tired to bother looking at them. Generally, after the students had gone, he’d make time to enjoy a solitary period of inspection. They painted innocent pictures of life as they saw it. Usually choosing strong colours, their pictures were simple and honest and straightforward. He generally found them refreshing, and sometimes stimulating. Occasionally a painting seemed to speak of some silent dilemma, or a hidden problem. It didn’t happen very often. When he thought it might be happening, he was acutely conscious of the high risk of misinterpretation or of seeing things that were not there. Even so, the simple paintings frequently afforded unique insights into the world his students lived in.

  This morning, belatedly, the paintings soothed and re
freshed. Clem had painted a bright yellow duck sitting on a bright blue pond. Typical Clem, straightforward and to the point. Trixie’s recent trip to the circus had inspired a series of multi-coloured swirls of movement she’d labelled ‘TRAPEZ’. Beautiful. Peter’s painting of animals was full of his happiness at the prospect of working on the farm. Cause for his heart to lift. Don’s frenetic daubs of colour in the approximate shapes of racing cars, the wastefully thick paint still not dry, communicated Don’s thirst for life and excitement. Linda’s sketchy dancing figures rekindled memories of the social. Meryl had painted her newest doll. Why did her family encourage her? She was too old for dolls. It was a shame, but understandable. With tragically too much justification, her parents were afraid to let her grow up. Even so, the delicate pinks and blues of the painting were charming.

  Realising he was smiling, even chuckling aloud as he bathed in the healing power of his private art show, he again regretted he’d missed them last night. They would, as always, have improved his mood. He looked at his watch; still very early. Manoeuvring the easels into a half circle, he drew up a chair, and prepared to renew himself in the peace of the empty building and the silent stimulation of the eloquent paintings. Particularly rewarding and best of all, including Clem’s duck, Peter’s animals, Don’s racing cars, Meryl’s doll and the others, were the few flimsy red blobs Laura had been persuaded to shakily daub onto a large sheet of paper. Particularly rewarding, not just because she’d made the effort, but also because he’d seen the light of joy in her eyes when she’d seen the results of her effort. Although Fay had withdrawn from almost all other contact, she continued to quietly work with Laura. Thank you, Fay.

  Gradually, as the teachers’ cars pulled up, followed by the bus and the cars of parents dropping off children, the noise level increased. Finally, his own group trooped in, shivering, stripping off coats and hats and gloves and galoshes before starting, as he’d taught them, to find work for themselves. Each had greeted him, waited for his reply, and moved away.

  Over-dependence on his directions had been actively discouraged. They should be comfortable with self-motivation, comfortable to choose and to be responsible for their choices. An ambitious goal, it began with this single step - come in and start your own work. Even Fay, in spite of her recent deterioration, followed the ingrained habit. Without waiting for direction, she found a simple jigsaw for Laura and began to work with her.

  He left the paintings, sat at his desk, passed the attendance register for Trixie to fill in, and looked around the busy room.

  ‘How is everyone?’ he called above the noise. ‘When you’re ready we’ll have our discussion.’

  Taking time to complete their immediate task, as was expected, they gradually moved to pull their chairs into the morning circle. Watching, he felt a small surge of satisfaction. All save Laura were learning a little independence. They were beginning to understand that it was possible to think for themselves, that it was permissible to trust their own judgement, and … importantly … that trial and error was okay and that it too could be an effective ‘teacher’. They were beginning to enjoy this too-rare freedom from dictatorial management of almost every aspect of their lives. They were starting to learn from their own mistakes, to take the risk inherent in independent decision-making and choosing and to appreciate the obligation of personal responsibility - in small things.

  In comparison to the freedom of mainstream teenagers, the opportunities he’d built into his program presented a tragically minute upward step. At least their feet were on the ladder. Which was not where they’d been when he’d first started teaching this lesson to each one of them. Maybe…?

  ‘I’ve been looking at your paintings.’ He joined the discussion circle.

  ‘You didn’t look yesterday?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Meryl. I was too busy with Miss Evans.’

  ‘I painted the trapeze lady and man.’ Trixie was pleased with her achievement.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ he acknowledged. ‘I see you wrote the title too.’

  ‘I don’t need no help to spell,’ Trixie preened.

  ‘Neither do I,’ Peter jibed. ‘I don’t have a title. You can see what mine is.’

  ‘Fay didn’t paint anything,’ Clem observed.

  ‘She doesn’t have to,’ he answered. ‘Fay did some very good typing. Very neat, too.’

  ‘She copied the spelling.’ Trixie, who prided herself on her memory for spelling the new words she was learning, disapproved of Fay’s constant use of the dictionary.

  ‘Stop picking on her,’ Meryl came to Fay’s defence.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘You should copy the spelling.’ Don waved the open dictionary at Trixie. ‘You can’t even spell trapeze.’

  ‘It’s a hard word.’

  ‘So don’t pick on Fay.’

  ‘Enough!’ Mark stood. ‘We’ll have News later. If your painting is dry, take it down before you do your work.’

  ‘Mine ain’t dry.’

  ‘I know, Don.’

  ‘Why didn’t it dry?’

  ‘You put the paint on too thick, stupid.’ Trixie never missed a chance to hit back.

  ‘It’s okay, Don.’ Was Trixie ever going to learn to shut up? ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s a very good painting.’

  ‘The paint’s too thick!’

  “I told you, Don. It’s a very good painting. It’ll soon be dry. Then you can put it in your folder, too. Everybody! Make sure you put your name on your painting. If you haven’t got a title and want one, put that on too.’

  ‘I can’t spell mine properly.’ Harry was already unclipping his colourful picture of the mountains.

  ‘Bring it here…’

  The group was busy, chattering, writing, labelling, putting folders into storage, when Meryl called: ‘Mark - can you help spell mine?’

  ‘You can spell it. You often paint your dolls.’

  ‘It’s not a doll.’

  ‘Isn’t this your new doll?’ He re-examined Meryl’s painting of the doll with large head and small limbs, coloured in pink outline with what was evidently a blue dress and cap. ‘What do you want me to help you spell? Your doll’s name?’

  ‘I told you. It’s not a doll.

  ‘So what are we spelling?’

  ‘Spell baby.’

  ‘It’s a baby.’ He smiled. ‘A baby doll?’

  ‘No, silly. A real baby.’

  ‘That’s nice. What name do you want to spell?’

  ‘Baby. Just baby.’

  He started to write the word on a scrap of paper. ‘You can copy the spelling.’

  Meryl selected a blue crayon. ‘It’s going to be a boy, I reckon.’

  He was mildly curious. Was Meryl to have a baby brother or sister? ‘It isn’t born yet?’

  ‘ ’Course not. She’s still here, isn’t she?’

  Sick, he saw the black as night wings of the Shakespearean crow. Idiot! Fool! He was seeing shadows that were not there. This was simply the painting of a happy family event. ‘When is the baby due, Meryl?’

  ‘You can’t see it yet,’ Meryl’s answer was indirect. ‘It’s in her belly.’

  ‘In your mother’s belly, Meryl? When is your mother …?’

  ‘Not my mother, Mark. Stop t-talking about my mother! She don’t want no more babies. She says she’s got enough.’

  Still inexplicably afraid, he completed the spelling on a sheet of scrap paper. ‘There you are, Meryl. Baby. Copy it.’

  ‘Thank you, Mark.’

  ‘No problem, Meryl.’ No problem. He prepared to move on.

  ‘I can find out the baby’s name.’ Meryl called after him.

  ‘Meryl!’ Peter called across the room. ‘Shut up!’

  ‘I can t-too.’

  ‘Leave her alone, Pete.’ Mark admonished. ‘It’s a beautiful picture, Meryl. I’m happy for your family.’

  ‘It’s not my family, silly. I keep t-telling you. It’s not my mot
her.’

  It didn’t matter. Meryl was happy with her painting. Everyone was happy with their painting. He was happy with his group. It didn’t…

  ‘It’s Fay!’ Meryl happily beamed. ‘It’s Fay’s baby.’

  Don’t think!

  ‘It’s Fay,’ Meryl’s pleasure shone. ‘It’s Fay’s…’

  ‘Meryl! Stop!’

  ‘You’re cross.’

  ‘No, Meryl. No, I’m not cross.’

  ‘You look cross. You’re cross with me.’

  ‘No, Meryl. I’m not cross with you.’ Aware of the room’s tense silence and the watchful looks of suddenly wary eyes, he managed to walk away from the group and back to his desk. He could not face them. He did not want to know the meaning of those guarded looks. He did not want to know any more about any of this. He did not want to know if there was anything to know.

  ***

  ‘I can’t say whether it’s Meryl’s imagination or not.’

  ‘You did question her further?’ Mrs Ryan was standing by the office window, looking out over the grey garden and the empty road to the low clouds blanketing the mountains.

  ‘You know Meryl. She’s always got some story.’ Although the room was warm, he was still shivering from his session in the unheated toilet block.

  ‘Tell me, Mark,’ the principal turned from her preoccupation with the cheerless view from the window, ‘exactly what did you do? After Meryl claimed that Fay was pregnant, what did you do then?’

  ‘I waited till play time. I….’

  ‘Before that. What about the class? What was their reaction?’

  ‘They only heard the first part. But - I have to say - they were obviously not surprised.’

  ‘What about Fay? Did you see her reaction?’

  ‘Nothing. At least nothing I could see. Her face was in shadow, she’d been working with Laura. She just stayed there.’

  ‘So when they all went out to play?’

  ‘I asked Meryl to stay.’

  ‘What then? Just get on with it, if you please.’

  Still he hesitated.

  ‘Really, Mark. I fail to…’

  ‘Meryl said her brother raped Fay.’